


VanCrewver Oneshots

by Diglossia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, M/M, Multi, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-10-08 12:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10386396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diglossia/pseuds/Diglossia
Summary: A collection of Vancouver crowd ficlets.





	1. Ryang v White Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone loves Mrs. Woo's cat except Ryang.
> 
> For FalseCamaro/pr0ko

"Get off," Ryang says. "Shoo."

The cat, sitting with its legs tucked up underneath it on his backpack, opens one baleful eye. Satisfied that Ryang presents no actual threat, it closes it again.

That's a problem because Ryang's backpack is not a personal cat butt warmer/throne. It is a backpack, meant for boys to use for _school_. School, which is going to start in thirty minutes and is a ten minute drive away.

Ryang would like everyone to know that this is bullshit.

He tries to shoo the cat away again. It doesn't budge.

He tries force, grabbing the handle of his backpack and pulling.

The cat hisses.

He tries reason. "That's not yours."

The cat glares.

He tries, as a last ditch effort, pathos. "I need to get to class, you evil thing."

The cat, being the vile, little demon it is, lifts its back leg and stares Ryang dead in the face as it calmly lathes its tongue over its butthole.

Ryang chooses this point to call in the cavalry.

"Koh!"

Koh ducks his head out of the kitchen. "What?"

"The damn cat won't get off my bag!"

Koh looks at him like this is not the entirely reasonable statement it is. He walks over, eyes locked on Ryang the entire time. He picks up the cat, who purrs and fucking tilts its head back for Koh to scratch. Just the picture of sweetness, the hellion.

"Not hard," Koh says, picking up the backpack and handing it to him. He's grinning.

Ryang scowls.

 

* * *

 

Ryang doesn't like the cat.

That's the first thing you learn when you step inside Litchfield: Ryang doesn't like the cat and the cat doesn't like him.

Ryang's reasons are fair: the cat's ugly. Its hair gets everywhere, it's completely pointless, its litter box reeks, the list goes on and on. Honorable mention, of course, goes to scratching at the bathroom door every time he's in there and leaving fresh hairballs where people (Ryang) can step in them. It's just a small, gross, smelly creature that serves no real purpose.

The cat's reasons seem to boil down to the undeniable fact that it was here before Ryang and the far more dubious fact that Ryang, unlike literally anyone else, is encroaching upon its space.

Well, Ryang ain't leaving, not for a whole nother year. The cat can suck it.

Koh, for inexplicable reasons, _loves_ the cat. Out of pure, unconditional spite for Ryang, the cat pretends to love him back. It winds itself around Koh's legs, curls up on the couch next to him, and purrs like a machine when all it does for Ryang is puke on his homework and yowl outside his door at two am.

In fact, the cat is everyone's best friend if Ryang is around because cats are petty and awful and this cat is the pettiest and awfulest.

Cheng2 thinks he's overreacting.

"If you'd just be nice to it," he says, as though Ryang hasn't known the cat the longest and has a feud to rival the Montagues and Capulets (with, he guesses, Koh being Juliet? It's a bad example. Too bad Ryang isn't a fan of history or English. What even other feuds are there?).

Also, please kindly explain how Ryang is supposed to be nice to a creature that regularly finds its way into his room and _pees on his bed_.

"Nobody had that room for a couple of years before you," Lee-Squared chimes in. "The cat probably thinks it's his."

Shockingly, no one offers to switch rooms with Ryang to test out this theory.

"Do you not, um, like _any_ cats?" Rutherford asks.

"They're okay," Ryang says. He's pretty indifferent to house pets. He never really had any growing up. His dad's allergic to most animals and his mom always brings her dogs on set. There were never any around.

 _Imo_ , on the other hand, is an old lady who's had _generations_ of cats. She even has pictures of them. Not like cat lady, I-get-professional-pictures-done-of-my-animals-and-prominently-display-them, but like, "hey, this thing lives here, might as well document it". She has pictures of every boy who's ever lived at Litchfield, too, just in case you wanted a visual history of 98% of the entire Asian student body at Aglionby. That shit's way cooler than, like, fifteen Kodak photos of nearly identical Persian cats.

 

* * *

 

You don't mess with Mrs. Woo's cat. If you do, the more dramatic of her boys say, she'll slip poison into yourtteokbokkiand you'll be gone before you even know it. That cat is _sacred_.

Mrs. Woo doesn't disagree with any of these assertions. The cat was here before any of the boys and it will be here long after. That cat and generations of its family have been with her far longer than any boy or man and been of far more use besides.

The cat is a regal thing. An almost purebred Persian with a somewhat protruding face courtesy of an itinerant tom grandfather, it spends most of its day wandering the neighborhood, only coming in at nighttime to pester her boys for treats and head scratches. Certainly, it has defied every expectation she had when naming it after President Bell.

Its brother, Headmaster Child, did far more to live up to its name and conveniently "ran away" several years ago.

 

* * *

 

A scritch. A scratch. A graceless thump.

Suppressing a sigh, Ryang looks up.

"Can't you go bother someone else?" he asks the cat.

The cat lets out a grumpy sort of meow. _Mrrah_.

"Please?"

The cat turns around so its cheery butthole is winking at Ryang with every _thwap_ of its tail and plops down smack in the middle of the notes Ryang is trying to type up.

"One day," Ryang quietly tells it, "you are going to mysteriously disappear and I will be the first to celebrate."

"Are you threatening my cat?" his aunt asks, appearing suddenly in the doorway.

"It's sitting on my notes!"

His aunt's eyes narrow. She crosses the room, wordlessly picks up the cat, hands Ryang his notes, and leaves the room, cat in her arms.

"I will not let that idiot boy hurt you," he hears her murmur as she walks down the hall.

Ryang rolls his eyes. He wasn't serious about doing anything to that cat.

After a moment's thought, he gets up to go tell his aunt that.

 

* * *

 

"Mrrr," the cat says, butting its head against Lee-Squared's thigh. He reaches a hand out and scritches behind its ears absentmindedly.

Such a sweet cat.

 

* * *

 

"Clean the cat box," Ryang's aunt says because watching Antiques Roadshow with Koh is not something she considers a valuable use of his time. It's not like they're even bothering anyone, headphones split between them, Koh only occasionally too loud in his surprise at the price of a locket (it contained the purported hair of King Charles I of England). They might have gotten a little heated griping about all the obviously stolen Chinese and Polynesian antiques that show up on the show but, hey, stolen antiques.

"Now," Imo adds when Ryang doesn't immediately move.

He groans and swings his legs off the couch.

Why does _he_ have to do all the gross chores around here? Literally, cleaning the litter box is the grossest thing ever. How hard would it be to teach the cat to go outside?

Scoop in one hand, plastic bag in the other, Ryang takes the top off the litter box. He tries not to gag. He fails.

"Change the litter while you're at it," his aunt's voice floats from upstairs.

"Are you serious," Ryang mutters.

Ten minutes later, old litter in the garbage can, new litter in the box, Ryang washes his hands. He's just about to go back to Koh when he spies the cat sauntering into the laundry room.

Ryang, knowing he'll regret it, ducks his head into the room just in time to see the cat step into its freshly cleaned litter box and take a dump.

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Woo is watching her soaps.

Cheng2 is, too, mostly because he's beyond tired and couldn't understand them even if they were in a language he spoke. He's not entirely sure they're in a language _Mrs. Woo_ speaks, if the Thai script at the bottom of the screen is anything to go by.

Every so often, Mrs. Woo will offer up a comment in Korean. They sound castigating and are usually accompanied by drama onscreen but Cheng2 defo hasn't learned enough Korean to understand the finer points of social commentary. So he listens politely and runs his hand over Prez's silky fur, playing with his tail until the cat whips it out from under his hand.

"Sorry, sorry," he tells Prez. Only he's super tired, so it comes out with a definite slur and a bit more twang than Cheng2's feeling right now. Whatev. It's not like cats understand English.

Or do they? Maybe there's a big cat conspiracy and they're super smart like dolphins, only they don't want people to know. Cats are kind of unfriendly. It could all be an act.

Mrs. Woo turns to Cheng2. "Have you done your homework?"

"Yes, auntie."

"Have you studied today?"

"Yes, auntie."

"There's nothing you could be doing right now?"

"No, auntie."

Mrs. Woo narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure? Your eyes are very red," she says bluntly.

"I'm not high, auntie." She's usually pretty good at catching him but he really isn't this time. Surreptitiously, he sniffs his shirt. A little funky. Still passable.

"Are you sure? You have been petting that cat for twenty minutes."

Cheng2 glances at Prez. Prez glances back up at him. Then he rolls his shoulders, gets up, and flounces off. _So long, sucker._

"I'm not high," Cheng2 insists.

"Go take a shower. You stink."

Fair enough.

 

* * *

 

Don't let it be said that Ryang hasn't tried to make peace with the cat. He has. He has tried so hard. He's also stepped in innumerable piles of cat puke always conveniently located right outside his bedroom door.

"I don't like you," Ryang says. He's down on his knees, rag in hand. He didn't step in it this time, which is even more annoying. He's getting used to the steady barrage of cat-on-human abuse. "You have any number of people in this house to bother. Cheng would love for you to puke outside his door."

The cat, in response, only purrs.

 

* * *

 

It's a shame Rutherford's allergic. President is an adorable cat. Rutherford just really can't be near him. He takes an antihistamine every morning and he still sometimes has to go take a hot shower because half of his face has swollen up.

Ah, well.

He can still look.

 

* * *

 

"It's already eaten today," Ryang protests as his aunt puts down yet another bowl for the cat. "You're not supposed to feed cats three times a day."

" _You_ eat three times a day, don't you?"

When his aunt turns away, Ryang grabs the bowl and pours two-thirds of it back into the bag. The cat glares at him.

"You don't need that much," he tells it. "You get fed enough as it is." It really does. Imo gives it wet food when she gets up at the crack of dawn, then Cheng2 normally pours a bowl for it in the morning before school. The cat goes outside, where Ryang's aunt puts a bowl on the back porch for the neighborhood cats that largely gets eaten by an increasingly obese raccoon. Lastly, it gets fed whenever the hell someone sees its food bowl is empty because Imo and everyone else who lives in this godforsaken house thinks it would absolutely _die_ if it didn't have food available to it all day long.

None of this even touches the amount of cat treats Koh feeds it or the human food Lee-Squared shares with it. That cat will eat anything. It ate part of Cheng2's stash once and wasn't that fun, Ryang getting to spend his afternoon at the cat hospital (Cat. Hospital. There is a thing called a. Cat. _Hospital_ ) because Cheng2 was blubbering if the cat died it would be all his fault and Koh was absolutely _distraught_ to say nothing of Imo. No one really appreciated Ryang's comment that, if they regulated the cat's food better, none of this would happen.

The cat crunches its kibble balefully.

Ryang sighs.

"Fine," he says, scooping a little more out of the bag, "but this is it, you hear?"

The cat shows its thanks by immediately attacking all the food.

Ryang gives up.

 

* * *

 

"What's that?" SickSteve asks. He's sitting on the floor in the living room, screw in his mouth, assembling a new set of shelves for Mrs. Woo. Koh's just come in carrying what appears to be a rigid yellow inner tube.

"A toy," Koh answers, watching in delight as Prez bats a screaming, red-flashing plastic ball around the tube. The top's been cut away to allow easy access.

SickSteve considers this answer. Last week, Koh showed up at Litchfield with a cat teaser wand. He spent hours over the ensuing week teasing the ever-loving shit out of Prez until it got to the point that Prez bit him from overstimulation. The wand had since disappeared. The broken bits of plastic and feathers stuffed in a bag in the bottom of the bathroom trash this morning might have had something to do with it. The jury was still out on whether Ryang or Mrs. Woo had put it there. Overstimulated cats were no one's friends.

"Mrs. Woo's gonna hate it," SickSteve informs Koh.

Koh doesn't answer. He plops his chin in hand and watches Prez beat the shit out of that plastic ball.

SickSteve shakes his head and goes back to assembling Mrs. Woo's shelves.

 

* * *

 

Henry has no real interest in Prez. Mostly, the cat stays outdoors and tries its best to get in the direct line of approaching cars. When it does come inside, it prefers Koh and Cheng2 to him. He has better things to do than lure unwilling cats into his company.

Still, there's something highly amusing about watching RoboBee drive it to distraction.

"You are truly not a credit to your generation," he says as RoboBee does a sudden one-eighty and Prez skitters into the wall.

Henry decides this would have made an excellent video and bemoans the fact that he failed to capture such a momentous occasion. Certainly, the only thing to do is recreate it. He directs RoboBee to do just that.

 

* * *

 

Ryang hangs his backpack on the wall hook. He slips his shoes off, places them neatly by the front door, and looks underfoot. He checks every stair on the way up just in case and the entryway to his room. All clear.

He enters his room and his mood drops. There's the cat, curled up in the middle of his bed.

He walks over, not even bothering to shoo the cat. The bed, to his complete shock, is perfectly dry. It smells freshly laundered.

This.

This might be the start of something new. The cat's turning over a new leaf, extending an olive branch.

Ryang goes to Cheng2's room and steals the first cat toy he sees. He walks back to his room cautiously, slightly giddy with the thought that the cat _might actually want to call a truce._

He squeezes the toy mouse, which makes a crunchy noise. The cat watches him. Ryang shakes it in front of the cat's face.

"Come on," he says. "Don't you want to play with me?"

The cat lifts its head. Ryang brings the toy closer.

The cat opens its mouth...and bites his hand.

Life, Ryang decides, is a fucking joke.


	2. Soulmate AU (Rutherford/Cheng2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soulmate AU

Soulmates do not exist.

That's what Rutherford's biology textbook says. His anatomy and physiology professor says "soul marks" are simply natural birthmarks to which people have assigned meaning. It has been proven time and time again that the vast majority of soul marks were merely vascular anomalies. Astrology isn't real merely because you were born at a certain time of year, is it?

Astrology is absolutely real, he remembers his Psych 101 professor saying three years ago, in the sense that all beliefs are real to the person who believes them. Can soul marks be empirically proven to mean perfect relationships? Absolutely not.

Rutherford's major seems intent on drilling this message into his skull: soul marks mean nothing and should be treated no differently than port-wine stains. It's a wonderful message, isn't it? There's no ticket to happiness on your arm, your neck, your ankle, or wherever else you might be blessed with dermal irregularity.

Screw science. Science doesn't change the fact that Rutherford has an irremovable tattoo on the inside of his wrist that matches perfectly with the full name of one of his best friends.

Science doesn't explain why Koh's name changed five times while he was growing up. Everyone had assumed he was lying until two days into spring semester, Marcus Ryang, someone who  _definitely_ didn't exist according to any of the registries, slammed an art history book down on their study table, waited for Koh to look up, and then smugly said, "Found you."

And science definitely doesn't explain Rutherford's roommate freshman year waking up in the middle of the night, vomiting profusely into the nearest wastebasket, saying, "Call an ambulance", and promptly passing out. Rutherford rode with him to the ER, the EMTs treating him furiously for suspected alcohol poisoning. Thirty minutes later, another ambulance pulled up and Rutherford's roommate cried out because in that ambulance was the gangly white boy whose name was written across the bottom of his foot. He had crashed his car so badly he went into a coma he never came out of.

So, yes, Rutherford believes.

He just doesn't know what the  _hell the_ universe is doing with him and Cheng2.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Rutherford," Cheng2 says, "you ever think of having, like, actual fun?"

Rutherford, because Cheng2 is high out of his mind, doesn't bother with a rebuttal. Instead, without looking up from his history textbook, he deadpans, "You ever think of, like, not lighting up at one in the afternoon?"

Cheng2 cracks up. "I like you, man," he says. "You're fun."

"Thanks," Rutherford says dryly. He goes back to reading about Operation FRICTION.

Cheng2 tilts his head back and breathes pot smoke into the air. The ceiling fan catches it and spreads it around the room. Rutherford fears he's going to get a contact high.

"Hey, Ruthie," Cheng2 says after what seems like a lifetime of silence. They don't always need words to fill the air, though Cheng2 has enough of them. The scratch of a pen, the turning of a page, the steady in-out of each other's breaths- often, that's enough for them.

People think Cheng2's always on something. Energy drinks, caffeine pills, hash. They never seem to think there's a downtime to balance it out or that the energy drinks are too often all that's keeping a perpetually sleepless college student functional.

"Ruth _ie_." There's a whiny edge to Cheng2's voice.

Rutherford makes a noncommittal noise.

"I'm hot, right?"

Rutherford's highlighter stills. "Uh."

"Like, objectively."

"Sure," he hedges.

"Right." Cheng2 nods to himself. "I am. So why can't Cheng see that?"

Rutherford fights the urge to sigh. This again. Cheng2's been gone for Cheng for years and Cheng is not interested or observant enough to realize.

He also thinks he's found his soulmate in Gansey, the history department's golden boy. Rutherford does have to grant that, yes,  _Gansey_ is part of the tangle of letters covering the inside of Cheng's left knee and Henry Broadway is not. There's also another name he's been picking out (it really is an awful tangle, letters on top of letters),  _Blue Saxnqznt_ , but that is no more Henry Broadway than Richard Campbell Gansey III is so who knows why Cheng2's still trying.

Rutherford knows. It's just not something he wants to articulate.

Here's the thing: Cheng2 is amazing, wonderful, and a goddamn, fucking idiot. He's probably Rutherford's best friend after Cheng. It's not exactly surprising that Rutherford'd have his name. You tend to be friends with your soulmates, if only because the big, glaring letters on your bodies make it really easy to find each other.

It's just Rutherford doesn't want to have sex with Cheng2. He's only barely attracted to him in the "my big, idiot best friend is objectively aesthetically pleasing and I have eyes" way.

Which, alright, soulmates don't have to be romantic. Platonic ones absolutely do exist.

But platonic ones where one partner is interested and the other isn't don't.

Not to mention, Rutherford doesn't even think Cheng2  _has_ a soul mark. He's never seen one and there's not an inch of Cheng2's body he hasn't seen.

 _Maybe he's an alien_ , Rutherford's brain unhelpfully supplies, because before he got his groove, he was a weird kid with a cryptid obsession that sometimes hedged into little green men territory.  _Aliens wouldn't have soulmates_. But that leaves Rutherford with a name on his wrist that an alien just happened to pick up and, yeah, alright, he's willing to admit he didn't think Henry Broadway was a real name at first, either.

Alien: still a possibility.

"You're hot, Cheng2," Rutherford says. "Now, I really need to do this reading so can we talk about something else?"

Grumbling, Cheng2 sits up. He dumps his bowl into an empty mug and sets about packing a new one.

"My lighter's dead," he tells Rutherford.

"Use mine."

Cheng2 spends a minute sifting through desk drawers.

"You want some?" Cheng2 asks as he flicks the lighter. Rutherford realizes he's been watching. He looks away.

"I'm good."

 

* * *

 

It's somewhere between Friday night and Saturday morning. Rutherford's desk lamp's been on so long the heat radiating off it could be from a furnace. His Anatomy notes are starting to blur in front of his tired eyes. He doesn't hear the door open and close.

He all but jumps when a heavy form drapes itself over his back. "Wha-"

"Don't make me move," Cheng2 groans, nosing at Rutherford's neck. The beer on his breath is tangible. "You feel nice."

Rutherford's heart flutters. "You're drunk."

"Mebbe."

A small smile graces Rutherford's lips. He reaches a hand up to scratch at Cheng2's hairline. "Promise not to distract me and you can stay."

"Promise."

They stay like that until Rutherford hears Cheng2's breath even out. Carefully, carefully, he extricates himself and helps him into bed, pulling off his jacket and untying his shoes. For a moment, he looks at Cheng2.

Then he pulls the blanket over him, shuts off the desk lamp, and goes to brush his teeth. As he grabs his towel, he thinks,  _surely, he must know._

Surely.

 

* * *

 

Some days it gets to be too much. Some days, Rutherford wakes up and looks across their shared dorm and thinks, _I love you._ Some days, he's in class and his hands itch to text those words to Cheng2. Some days, he thinks about how he's a senior living in the dorms because asking Cheng2 to move in with him feels too much like an admission of something he's spent eight years keeping hidden.

Today is not one of those days.

Today, he gets up and all he cares about is class and his upcoming MCAT retake. He gets breakfast at the bagel shop near the bookstore and spends the half hour before Biochem wishing he hadn't agreed to an eight a.m. class.

He makes it through, of course he does, but by the time he's dragged himself through two more classes and a study session at the library, he just wants to go home and beat off.

He's already half-hard on the way back- it's been ages since he's gotten off- and all he wants to do is get rid of it, it's so damn embarrassing, but

Cheng2's

home.

And Rutherford just threw his things on the bed and started undoing his belt and he is definitely not in a position to be hiding anything.

Cheng2's sitting at the desk,  _Rutherford's_ desk, pencil to his bottom lip, watching. Then he cracks up. Just fucking hyena laughs because your roommate being in dire straits is apparently funny as hell.

"Need a little help there?" he asks, bringing the chair back down to its front legs. "Got a, uh,  _situation_?"

"Shut up," Rutherford snaps. "It's not funny."

" _Au contraire_."

"I said, fuck off." Rutherford grabs his towel and shoves it in front of his crotch. He opens the door behind him and sidles out it. "You are the worst roommate."

Cheng2's laughter follows him all the way to the bathroom.

It is a very furious masturbatory session. Rutherford keeps the shower going for forty-five minutes in the hopes Cheng2 will take the hint and leave.

He does not.

"Did you have fun?" Cheng2 asks when Rutherford comes back. His grin is a mile wide.

"Shut up," Rutherford says, flopping down on his bed. He's spent all day not thinking about Cheng2 and now he comes back and he's all he can think about. "You have pen on your cheek," he says to deflect Cheng2's attention.

Surprisingly, Cheng2 actually bothers to check. He gets out the handheld mirror he always carries around (Cheng does, too, something about checking their hair) and tilts his head this way and that to check. "Do not."

Rutherford sticks his tongue out at him.

"Hey, you know, you're always welcome to do that shit in here."

"I am not jacking off in front of you, Cheng2."

"A man can dream."

"I see no man. Only  _child_."

"Harsh. Seriously, though," Cheng2 says, getting up and leaning over Rutherford to murmur in his ear, "I don't mind."

Rutherford can't remember how to breathe. Cheng2's so close, his body heat and scent taking up all the air. They're not touching, but they could be. Oh, God, they could be.

"Stop it," he finally croaks out. "I'm not in the mood."

Cheng2 laughs and moves away.

"The offer still stands," he says.

Rutherford pretends he didn't hear.

 

* * *

 

Once a month, all the guys get together to go out for Sunday night dinner. The restaurant's always changing as each of them get a turn to choose. Ryang usually picks some avant garde, artsy-fartsy place and SickSteve thinks it's hilarious to pick McDonald's every single time but, for the most part, the food is good and the company, too.

Tonight was Lee-Squared's turn. He chose Thai, which quickly devolved into an argument with Ryang and Koh about  _which_ Thai place to go to. Rutherford hadn't even known there were so many choices. If he wants Thai, he usually just types "good thai place" into his phone and is done with it.

The argument's over and done well before they hit the restaurant and the atmosphere is light and easy. They're just a group of friends out at dinner. No drama.

The night is reaching a high point- they're about to pay the bill and leave the restaurant for a bar- when Cheng2 does it.

He makes a pass at Cheng.

It's not overt, just flirting with a bit of a dig, but Rutherford sees it for what it is. He's witnessed it too many times not to.

"Cheng2, stop," Rutherford finds himself quietly saying. "He's found his soulmate."

Cheng2's words are swift. "So? You know those marks don't mean anything."

Rutherford's breath catches in his throat. The words on his wrist prickle. "What are you talking about? Of course, they do."

"Do they, Ruthie? Do they? Or are they just things to make people feel like shit until someone comes along who they're supposed to be with who doesn't even  _want_  them?" Cheng2's voice is getting loud. Lee-Squared and Koh are looking at them.

Rutherford lowers his voice even more. "Gansey wants him."

"I'm not talking about  _Gansey,_ " Cheng2 says, his tone acerbic.

"Then what are you talking about?"

"What do you think I'm talking about?"

"I don't know!" Rutherford is starting to get angry. It's not an emotion he reaches regularly but Cheng2's ticked off about something and Rutherford sure as hell doesn't want to continue this conversation in the car. "You haven't explained anything."

"I shouldn't have to."

"Well, I'm not a mind reader."

"That," Cheng2 replies, "is exactly my point."

"What point?!"

"Guys," Lee-Squared says, "would you like to take this outside?"

"No need," Cheng2 says, grabbing his coat, "I'm leaving."

"What's his problem?" Ryang asks after Cheng2's been gone a minute.

Rutherford worries his lip. "I don't know," he says, "but I'm going to go find out."

 

 

Cheng2 isn't by his Chevy. Rutherford panics for a moment, thinking he might have done something stupid like try to walk home, when he hears, "I'm over here."

Cheng2's sitting on the back of a bench outside the restaurant. His feet are on the seat, legs spread wide, hands folded between them. He looks tired, drained of all his usual energy.

Rutherford sits next to him. For a while, neither of them speak.

"Is there something going on with you I should know about?" Rutherford finally asks.

"Don't you wish sometimes," Cheng2 says in lieu of answering, "this whole soulmates thing didn't exist? That we could just go back a hundred fifty years and not have to deal with any of this crap?"

"And what?" Rutherford asks. "Guess? Go our whole lives not knowing if we'd missed finding who we were meant to be with?"

"Don't you ever get jealous?" Cheng2 asks, again not answering Rutherford's question. "All those people out there, finding their people, and you're still alone?"

It's times like this Rutherford thinks Cheng2 must not know. Rutherford keeps the mark covered, since it's the polite thing to do. Once he realized Cheng2 was never going to reciprocate the bond, it was as simple as not telling him. If they never say it, never put words to their strange situation, it's as if it never was.

Sometimes, being Cheng2's friend is as easy as swallowing molten glass.

"I don't think I'm the jealous type," Rutherford says simply.

"I wish you were." Cheng2 pauses, rubs a hand over his mouth. "You know what, this is stupid. I'm gonna go home. You okay to catch a ride with someone else?"

"I'll be fine."

Rutherford watches Cheng2 walk to his Chevy. He waits until the car's pulled out of the parking lot before he goes back inside. The guys will be wanting answers and Rutherford doesn't have any.

 

* * *

 

Cheng2 doesn't apologize for the fight. Neither of them even acknowledge it happened. The air is tinged with upset tension and Cheng2 doesn't come home until late for a few nights, always smelling of coffee or beer or weed, telltale signs he's been somewhere else with someones else.

Rutherford is downright despondent. Cheng2's upset about something that he won't fully articulate and there's nothing Rutherford can do because there's nothing Cheng2 will  _let_ him do.

To make it even worse, the whole week seems to be filled with people wanting to talk about soul bonds. Not just marks or soulmates but soul bonds. Rutherford wishes his mark were in a less conspicuous place. They make cuffs in plenty of styles and yet, everyone who looks at him knows right away he's not trendy, just unbonded.

Rutherford's really been thinking about getting a skin patch. He just doesn't want people to make comments, like, _why would you want to hide your mark location; that's so weird._

He thinks about telling Cheng2. Then he thinks about the misery of all their mutual friends' pity and how awful it would be for Cheng2 to have to explain that, no, he's not an asshole, fate just decided to mess with the both of them.

"Have you tried different spellings?" Cialina, his study partner for French, asks. "It's possible the name was added to one of the registries wrong."

"I'll try that," Rutherford lies and starts quizzing her on verb tenses.

Ryang isn't very helpful. He tells Rutherford again how the registries kept saying Koh was in Vancouver and how  _he_ wasn't going to put  _his_ life on hold to find someone in his home _town_  only to run into Koh here, in the States.

"It'll happen when it happens," he says matter-of-factly, as if Koh hadn't basically swooned at first sight of him.

Rutherford goes over to Lee-Squared's and SickSteve's apartment the next day and it's more of the same.

Ryang has nothing on Lee-Squared and his personal praise machine. Their bond is one of those exceptionally strong ones that makes communication unnecessary. Most people find them unbearable after an hour. Rutherford thinks they're fine if there's someone else there to act as a barrier. Alone, they can be kind of intense.

Which is why Rutherford never intended to be left alone with the two of them. The guys were supposed to come over and play Call of Duty. Then Cheng and Koh cancelled at the last minute, after Rutherford had already arrived. Cheng2's not going to skip Macro for COD and Ryang thinks video games are beneath him. So it's just Rutherford third-wheeling.

Making matters worse, SickSteve decides the best accompaniment to egregious amounts of zombie murder is telling Rutherford how long and hard he had to look to find someone with such a common name. Emphasis on  _long_ and  _hard_.

Rutherford makes a mental note to never be alone with these two ever.

"Do you know how many Lee Donghyun's there are in the world?" SickSteve asks, looking at Rutherford while he downs a zombie. "A  _ton_."

"You still found me," Lee-Squared interjects. He's cross-legged on the couch, an LSAT guide across his lap. His shirt's rolled up a bit at the side, showing off a sliver of his pudgy stomach and the first letters of SickSteve's name.

SickSteve looks back at him fondly. The hangul on his neck forms a stark display against his skin. When Rutherford first met him, he wore a bandage over it and refused to let anyone see. Back then, of course, he wore a cross, too. "That I did."

Rutherford goes back to his apartment that night and bitches to Cheng2 for an hour. Cheng2 laughs so hard he almost falls off the bed. It almost makes Rutherford's week. Almost.

Because the next morning, he gets a text from Cheng saying he won't be around this weekend because he's jaunted off to a bed and breakfast with Gansey and their newly found third soulmate, "a wonderful WOman by the name of BLUE SARGENT" (peering at this at three a.m., Rutherford can only think,  _what the fuck, Cheng, seriously, what the fuck_ ).

Rutherford, counting this as a general jab in everyone's direction, elects not to tell Cheng2.

 

* * *

 

Cheng2's at it again. It's like he can't seem to stop flirting with taken people, like he's got some hardcore desire to be rejected.

Most people are nice about it or at least civil. It's to be expected from people who think you might be their soulmate. There's some leniency. The barista with the Gujarati on her forearm lets him down with a glance at her wedding ring. The guy in line at Starbucks asks for his name. The girl from his Macro class says, "You're cute, but I'm not looking for a short-term relationship."

Rutherford wishes he wouldn't do this in the open, with Rutherford standing right next to him. The secondhand embarrassment is awful. The look on people's faces. If anyone had Cheng2's name, they would have found him already. His last name's too uncommon.

As Cheng2 says, though, he doesn't care about soulmates. It's not a conversation they've ever fully had, for all that Cheng2's left enough hints. Cheng2 has no mark, which means he has no soulmate, which means Rutherford having his name means nothing. Life is cruel.

Rutherford starts looking it up. He's never heard of anyone else not having a mark. They've only been around for the last hundred fifty years, so there's certainly room for instances not to be recorded. For all he looks, though, he can't find instances of no marks. Even people bonded with those from illiterate cultures have some sort of distinguishing mark. He entertains the thought that Cheng2 might be covering his up but, really, he's seen every inch of the guy.

He looks at articles about skin grafts, about mark removal, about scars. Everything says they grow back, that even laser treatments won't fully remove them.

He looks up demisexual, asexual, aroace soul marks. Everyone has one, just like he already knew. Platonic soulmates exist.

Koh proves they're mutable. That doesn't matter but it's an interesting tidbit. He adds that to a trans positivity chat:  _It'll work out- my friend's soulmark changed five times before settling on his soulmate's name._

He keeps looking as new ideas pop into his head. Childhood trauma (thankfully, no), inconvenient mark spots (ruled out the second he remembered, yes, he  _has_  seen  _every_ inch of Cheng2), covered up by other birthmarks (which Cheng2 doesn't have), extreme dermabrasion. It's a never-ending list and it yields him no results. Either Cheng2 is a medical anomaly or the Internet's not the vast compendium of knowledge it should be.

So he looks up "unrequited soulbond" and almost immediately exits out of the search because there are pages. Hundreds upon hundreds of pages of people discussing their names not wanting them only to find out it was a misnomer or it was reciprocated, they just had to wait. Rutherford can't bear to read any of it. If he does, he'll scream.

He takes his cuff off and scratches at Cheng2's name. What he wouldn't give not to wear the cuff. He could be like SickSteve, blatant in his bond, uncaring who sees, a billboard on his body proclaiming to all who he belongs to and who belongs to him.

If Cheng2 belongs to him.

Because he doesn't, does he? If he has no mark, there's no soul bond to forge. And there are other Henry Broadways out there but what are the chances they're Rutherford's Henry Broadway and not the guy he met in high school?

Rutherford has to admit, it's starting to look like a very good chance.

He should tell Cheng2. Just put it all out there and say, hey, I know it's not you but, if it is, it's your right to know.

And lose Cheng2. Lose the friend he's had for years because he can't deal with the fact that he's putting hope into something that won't happen. Lose their friend group, too, because Cheng2's the charismatic one and Rutherford's just the anxious one.

 _I love you_ , he types out on his phone, hastily changing it to  _love you, man_.

Cheng2 sends back a single question mark.

 

* * *

 

"What are you getting Cheng2 for Mark Day?" Koh asks as he sucks on his boba.

The holiday's a week away. It would be a reasonable question for Rutherford to ask Koh but the other way around? Koh's dense but Rutherford didn't think Koh was that dense. He grimaces.

"Cheng2 and I aren't together."

Koh looks genuinely surprised. His straw falls out of his mouth. "You're not? But I thought you guys started dating since two years ago. That's why you're roommates."

"Uh," Rutherford says. He doesn't know how to put this. "No."

"Are you sure?"

 _Yes, Koh, I'm sure I'm not in a relationship with my roommate and best friend, I think I know more about my life than you do_ , Rutherford is prepared to say, when Koh drops a bombshell:

"But you have his name and he has yours?"

 

* * *

 

"It's on your face?!" are the first words out of Rutherford's mouth when he gets back.

"What's on my face?" Cheng2 asks, whirling around and, holy fuck, Koh's right, Cheng2 doesn't just wear concealer for his poor complexion, he's got a fucking skin patch covering his left cheek. It's a high end one, near invisible unless you're looking for it, but it is unmistakably, undeniably  _there_.

"Take it off," Rutherford says. He's shaking. He can't- this can't be happening. "Take that fucking thing off."

Cheng2 stares at him. Then, slowly, he reaches up and pulls the skin patch off.  _Logan Rutherford._

"Why didn't you tell me?" Rutherford's fists clench and unclench.

"Why didn't I-?" The words tumble out of Cheng2's mouth fast as they always do. "You didn't  _want_ me, Rutherford. You hid your mark from me. This thing is on my  _face_. Of course, I'm going to cover it. But you-" Cheng2 shakes his head in disbelief. "You wear that cuff to bed. You don't take it off for anything. And you know, I thought I'd give you time. But, apparently, eight years isn't long enough." He smiles sadly, rakes a hand through his hair, and shrugs. "It's cool. I'm over it. We're friends. That's enough for me."

Rutherford's throat constricts. "I didn't say anything," he says quietly, "because I thought you didn't have a soul mark. I wasn't rejecting you."  _I would_ never  _reject you_ , he only barely stops himself from saying.

_We're friends. That's enough for me._

He's too late. He's too freaking late.

Cheng2's forehead wrinkles. "Why would you think I wouldn't have a soul mark? Everyone has one."

Rutherford doesn't have a good answer. It never occurred to him Cheng2's soul mark could be on his cheek. "I thought you didn't have one."

"That's absurd."

"I know." Rutherford sits down on his bed hard. "Fuck." Cheng2 moves to sit next to him. Rutherford reaches a hand up and tentatively touches the letters on his cheek. He's allowed to touch his own name. "Fuck," he says again. Cheng2 puts his head on Rutherford's shoulder and slings an arm around his waist.

Rutherford wants to scream.

"Ruthie," Cheng2 says, "talk to me. What's wrong?"

Rutherford shakes his head. He doesn't want to talk about this. It's so much worse than he thought.

"Ruthie," Cheng2 pleads. "Come on. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong. You don't want this?"

"Of course, I do," Rutherford chokes out. His throat is painfully tight. He's such a baby, going to cry because his soulmate doesn't  _like_ him like him. "I want this so much. But you don't."

Cheng2 raises his head. "Says who?"

Rutherford traces his name on Cheng2's cheek. It's an unusual spot. Rutherford's only ever met a handful of people with facial marks. Though, now that he thinks about it, maybe only a handful willing to display theirs. "Says you. You hid this from me."

"Uh huh. Like you haven't kept yours covered. In all the time I've known you, I have never once seen you show yours off. You wear that cuff to bed, Ruthie. To  _bed_."

"Can I see it?" he asks, voice softening as he turns Rutherford's wrist over. "You've never shown me."

Rutherford unbuckles the cuff and wipes his wrist on his pants before showing Cheng2.  _Henry Broadway_ , same as it's always been.

Cheng2's eyes take in the mark greedily. His fingers trace over every word, making Rutherford shiver. He murmurs his own name, as if in disbelief.

Cheng2's eyes flick from Rutherford's to his lips and back again. "I'm going to kiss you now, if that's alright."

Rutherford's eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

Cheng2 sighs. "Ruthie, we're practically married. I've spent the last three years sleeping in the bed next to yours. Happily I might add. I don't think a little kiss is crossing any lines."

"Lines? You hit on people all the time!"

"Okay, like, half of the time, that's just to see if you'll get mad because, um, maybe a quarter of the time you  _do_."

"And the rest?"

Cheng2 shrugs. "It gets kind of lonely when your soulmate rejects you."

Oh.  _Oh_. There's only one good response to that.

"I'm not rejecting you now," Rutherford says and leans in. Cheng2 groans into the kiss, eager. He cups the back of Rutherford's skull and parts his lips. Rutherford takes the invitation, pushing Cheng2 back onto the mattress as he plunges inside his mouth. It feels so right, all of this, everything. The kiss isn't too much, not overwhelming at all but comfortable, familiar. Like sinking into your mattress after several days away from home or rereading a book you know by heart.

Cheng2 groans softly when Rutherford pulls back. The sound tears at Rutherford but he has to, he has to. "You should probably know, I'm not really into the whole sex thing."

Cheng2's expression is gentle. No, fond. "I know, man. I  _know_ you. Now get back here, because I'm going to kiss the fuck out of you. And then we're going to cuddle. Because that shit is hot as fuck."

"You're ridiculous," Rutherford says.

Cheng2 grins, lips swollen and shiny with spit. "You love me."

It's true: he does. He loves Cheng2. For the first time in his life, Rutherford doesn't have to hide it. It's right there, written across Cheng2's cheek, across his own wrist. And, as he presses open-mouthed kisses along Cheng2's chest, wordlessly telling him everything he needs to know, he resolves never to hide their bond ever again.

 


	3. This Is Not A Love Story (Cheng2/Prokopenko)

It was just supposed to be a hookup. Nothing serious, not even something worth remembering in the morning. So why did it turn out this way?

He's not good-looking or smart or particularly built. He's a skinny, pale, white guy.

But he's got this thing, this air.

And they both want somebody who doesn't want them.

 

* * *

 

All Cheng2 wanted to do was race.

The (slightly, possibly, if you turn your head to the side and don't think about it too hard) good part about having divorced parents is, in between all the fighting and the name-calling and the bitching, you get some sweet birthday presents. The ZR1 is one of them.

A Chevy Corvette ZR1 was not at all a reasonable gift for a sixteen year old with a freshly printed driver's license but Pops wasn't particularly concerned with "reasonable" when it came to showing up Dad. He asked Cheng2 what he wanted and Cheng2, about to turn sixteen, said a car. Then he named the most ridiculously awesome car (Lambo LP460, ofc) and Pops met him halfway.

So, yeah, he wanted to race that thing.

And he was good. He was the fastest damn thing out there by miles. It was amazing. It was great. It was The Best.

But he had a trump card in a car above everyone else's class and he knew it. People don't wanna race if they don't think they have a chance of winning. So he cut back on the actual racing and went to the drag strip to watch and to the parties to have fun and the fairground because somebody asked.

And that was how he got to know his fellow racers.

There were a couple locals, a couple out-of-towners, but most everybody was Aglionby. And most everybody was Kavinsky's.

Cheng2 wasn't Cheng's then because Cheng wasn't anybody then. He had yet to come into his own. He was just one of the Asian kids, the Vancouver crowd. He was a nonentity. Cheng2 was a nonentity, too.

Prokopenko was definitely not a nonentity. Kavinsky's main man he was, for reasons no one understood outside of possible mob solidarity. He was hard-drinking and hard hitting and a bit of a shit driver. He wasn't smart or good-looking and his accent was thick as a mother.

He sucked cock like a god.

Yeah, Cheng2 doesn't know how it happened, either. He just woke up one day with a pounding headache, a text from Danylo Prokopenko saying, "this is my #", and the knowledge that he had, in fact, gotten his brain blown via dick to mouth.

So, yeah, that happened. It was a mistake, it should have never occurred, and yet it continued to occur just about every weekend.

And, okay, Cheng2 knew he wasn't the only one. Prokopenko wasn't shy or picky. But it did sort of become something.

"We should really stop meeting like this," Prokopenko said the third or fourth time, a laugh in the curve of his lips, Cheng2's dick in hand. His tongue flicked out, swiped at the tip, and Cheng2's words stopped working as his brain decided to shut completely off.

"Funny meeting you here," he said the time after.

"Damn, you're really that easy for me," the time after that, Cheng2 gravitating towards him seemingly without meaning to.

He knew it was a mistake when he started going to parties because he knew Proko would be there. He definitely knew it when he started paying attention to the guy in school. He absolutely knew shit was getting fucked when they started having actual conversations.

"Let's get out of here," Prokopenko said once and they skipped World Hist to smoke behind the science building.

"Come with me," he said another time and they spent the afternoon driving down backroads, getting drunk on Jack Daniel's and laughing about nothing.

Cheng2 would give Proko life advice he wouldn't take. He'd eye the bruises and obvious teeth marks on his neck, the angry nail tracks on his back. He'd come close to saying what he really wanted to, which was why do you put up with him, but the answer was so obvious putting it out there would be mean.

It was, perhaps, not the best idea to get involved with Kavinsky's pet. But, you know, no one else was looking at Cheng2. And it wasn't like him and Proko weren't in the same boat, wanting someone who didn't want them. So he gave in. He let it last outside of parties. They caught eyes at school and Cheng2 would rejoin Proko's secretive grins. They sent each other texts, little things that turned into weeklong conversations about anything and everything. He even, in a moment of weakness, bought Prokopenko a birthday present, just a gold chain because the clasp on the old one was falling apart. He meant to give him a ring, too, something tacky and to his taste, but thought better of it at the last second. He crammed the box way back in his desk drawer, ashamed and a little sick from the heat in his belly.

No one else was paying attention to him. That's all it was.

Well, no one was _giving_ him attention. Someone was certainly _paying_.

 

* * *

 

 

To be fair, it isn't any more obvious in hindsight. Proko shot him an ETA and an address. _Sweet_ , Cheng2 thought at the time, _party_.

There is no party. Kavinsky and Skov are there to greet him. Kavinsky's smile is all predator, cruel and gleeful with a hint of teeth still stained red from his last hunt.

"Where's Proko?" Cheng2 asks because sometimes words get away from him. People act like it's a bad thing but the reality they present is always more fun.

Kavinsky and Skov share a glance. Kavinsky's smile grows. "He's...indisposed."

As the first punch lands, Cheng2 thinks, _yeah, this is how it was supposed to be._

Once he's on the ground, Cheng2 stops trying to fight. It's two-to-one. He doesn't stand a chance.

Where is Proko? _Indisposed_ flutters in and out of Cheng2's brain. _Indisposed, indisposed, indisposed._

He can't breathe through the blood in his nose. They won't stop kicking his ribs. There's an awful crunch as Kavinsky grinds the bones in his wrist to rubble.

 _Indisposed_. Did they do this to Proko?

 _Indisposed_. Or is this a warning to stay away?

Skov's got a knife. Cheng2 can barely feel it through all the pain.

"I would say it's not personal," Skov says, crouched down next to the ragged pile that is Cheng2, "'cept it kind of is."

They leave. It takes the very last of Cheng2's strength to send Rutherford his location and the words, _call 911_.

 

* * *

 

 _Hurry_ , Prokopenko says in Cheng2's pain med-induced dream. _Please_.

 _Hurry where?_ Cheng2 asks but Prokopenko turns into Kavinsky's grinning face.

 _He's...indisposed_ , dream Kavinsky says. _For good_.

 _Hurry_ , comes Proko's phantom voice. _Please_.

He fades away.

Cheng2 wakes up and he feels somehow like he's already failed.

 

* * *

 

Coming in and out of wakefulness, Cheng2 hears the strangest things. So strange, in fact, they're hard to believe. The first time the nurses say something, he assumes the pain meds are messing with his head. The second, the third, not so much.

It's a truly grisly subject. A body's been found near the old county fairground, burned black, no dental records or identifiable features. No one in the valley has been reported missing. It must, the nurses whisper, be an outsider.

"Do you think it could be one of them raven boys?" one asks.

"If only," another says, her words followed by a titter of dark laughter.

Cheng2 gets out of the hospital as fast as he can.

SickSteve picks him up at the loop out front. They don't talk about what landed him in the hospital in the first place, just go to the nearest gas station.

"Are you safe to be out?" SickSteve asks as he helps lay Red Bull and Fritos on the front counter. The cashier glances at Cheng2 furtively.

"Probably not," Cheng2 admits, shoving the Fritos bag into the sling keeping his plastered left arm in place. "But I'd rather be out here than in there." He grins at first the cashier, then SickSteve. Neither of them looks reassured.

There's something nagging at Cheng2, scratching at the back of his skull. He feels unmoored without his caffeine. He drinks three Red Bulls in a row until his hands shake and the twitchiness moves from his inside to his out.

He feels human again and yet the suspicion that something's gone wrong remains.

The car's fixable, just a couple broken windows and mirrors, four slashed tires. Insurance'll cover all of it. His parents aren't even pissed about the damage. They're a little distracted by the whole "beaten so badly he ended up in the ER" thing.

 

* * *

 

"Ruthie," Cheng2 says in English class a week later, "you think there's something off about Prokopenko?"

Rutherford stares at him in disbelief. "You should, uh, stay away from those guys."

Cheng2 nods like he understands. But he can't help thinking about what indisposed means, all the different possibilities. Did Skov and Kavinsky deliver a beating to Proko, too? It doesn't look it. But there's something off about Proko.

_Hurry._

Cheng2 is foolish but he has to know.

He waits for an opportunity to find Proko alone. It's harder now. He's by Kavinsky's side more, less prone to going off on his own. But Cheng2 knows he takes French without any of his friends and so it's spectacularly easy to catch Proko by the sleeve and pull him into the nearest restroom.

"Are you alright? What did he do to you? Can I help?" The words come out in a torrent of emotion, fear and unhappiness and the realization that he does care, more than a bit. Kavinsky shouldn't have this kind of power over his people.

Proko looks at him with no recognition. Cheng2 is taken aback but he has nerves of iron so he searches Proko's face for something. And that's when he sees it, what's been bothering him.

His face. It isn't right. His eyes aren't the right shade, his ears are a little too big, the freckle on his bottom lip is too far to the left.

"What _are_ you?" Cheng2 asks in horror, letting him go.

Proko smirks and leans back against the tiled bathroom wall, hips angled forward. It's wrong, it's wrong, it's all so very wrong. Cheng2 feels queasy.

"What do you mean?" Proko asks and even his accent is the tiniest bit off. "I'm Danylo Prokopenko."

"No," Cheng2 says, choking on fear, "no, you're not."

Proko laughs. He pushes off the wall and grabs Cheng2 by the chin. It's not hard. He's taller; they're evenly matched in strength.

"Yes, I am." He rubs his thumb over Cheng2's cheek. Cheng2 recoils from this facsimile of a human. What _is_ he? "And if I'm not, you know who's responsible." He lets go of Cheng2's chin and pats his cheek. "It's been fun, Cheng2, but we really can't be seeing each other anymore."

He steps away. The bathroom door swings shut behind him.

Cheng2 goes into the nearest stall. After a moment's hesitation, he locks himself inside. He lights a joint and spends the next hour softly saying _what the fuck_ over and over again.


	4. Henry Cheng/Jiang

The only thing you need to know is that Jiang is not who he says he is...and neither is Cheng.

And this, these meetings, never happen.

The bike slides into place next to the Supra. Jiang is already leaning against the hood of the car, cigarette in hand.

"I don't want to talk about it," he says. It being Cheng2's fractured ribs and broken jaw. It being a liquid diet and a hasty blood transfusion, clothes too soaked to be good for anything but the bin.

The only thing Henry wants to do is talk about it. Instead he says, "Tell your friend he needs to be more careful."

"Why?" Jiang asks, taking a last drag before tossing his cigarette to the ground. He pushes off the car, every step a threat.

"We don't need those kinds of people around here."

Jiang dismisses the warning with curt noise. "Are we going to do this or what?"

The wires won't be coming off for a month. Cheng2 will be drinking through a straw until then.

"No, we're not."

"Your loss."

Jiang saunters away.


	5. Mrs. Woo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was originally published in The Crayfish and the Crab but, as it was written for a tentative collection of Vancouver crowd ficlets, I'm including it here. Enjoy!

Mrs. Woo has been a fixture of Henrietta longer than anyone can remember. She's easy to overlook, a diminutive crone who spends too long reading the backs of boxes in the grocery store and arguing with beleaguered employees over prices. For who knows how many years, she's lived in the Victorian in the center of town, just her and the raven boys she boards.

Aglionby hates her. She's quarrelsome and cantankerous, apt to send long letters detailing the legal paradigms that prevent the school from enforcing the racist policies it wants. She grew up in the midst of war and social upheaval. These men don't scare her.

Not that many men do.

The town of Henrietta has been trying to buy the Victorian off her for years. Once a year, they send a letter with a buyout price and the politely veiled threat of eminent domain. Once a year, she politely informs the city council that, should they try, her lawyers would be very interested in pursuing a discrimination suit.

Her reluctance to give the old Victorian up has inspired rumors.

Some say she means to keep that house as a warning to Aglionby: this is no longer just a white man's game.

Some say the house has sentimental value. It's where she raised her children and dozens of schoolboys. The house has become a symbol of the people she loves.

Some say Mrs. Woo was married once and she will never leave that house, not while her husband's bones lie hidden under the floorboards.

More than one of these rumors is true.

"In 1959, I married your uncle," she tells Marcus, her youngest nephew. She remembers whenJennyhad him, just the right age, not too young, not too old. He's a good boy, smart, driven to succeed. She suspects, if it weren't for his situation, he would have an easy life. "He was a serviceman at the time, working out of Chinhae. More honorable than some, he had me and no one else. After the war, we moved here. He was out of the military by that time. We had a son together. It was a good life.

"Then one day, I came home with the groceries and he was gone." She takes a sip of her barley tea to signal the end of the story.

It is not the end, of course. No story ends so neatly.

The neighbors remember Mrs. Woo sitting on her porch day after day, waiting for her husband to come back. Her son remembers a place set for years for a man who would never return.

Young-jin, one of her quietest, most respectful boys, sat down next to her one day many years later and said, "You needn't move them but it might be better to burn the remains."

She added a garden to her backyard that spring and mixed the ashes with the dirt, sat back on her haunches, wiped her forehead, and said, "Yes, this was a good idea."

He was a fine boy, that one. He passed away a few years ago in a freak accident, fell off the roof while cleaning his gutters. Mrs. Woo didn't go to the funeral.

After the war, after she buried three generations of her family, she promised the next funeral she attended would be her own. She has enough ghosts for one lifetime.

Mr. Woo, you see, didn't disappear after his death. Mrs. Woo tried to banish him, brought in people to do exorcisms, even went to the fortune-tellers who lived on Fox Way. What could they do, after all? The authorities would never believe them.

One, a big, black woman, told her she would never truly be rid of him if she stayed in that house.

Another, a white woman with cotton-cloud hair, said that salt and local herbs would do the trick.

A third, a brown woman gravid with pregnancy, pressed a fist to the small of her back and said, "Good for you. He got what he deserved."

It was on her way out that a girl of perhaps five or six ran up behind her. The child grabbed her hand and tugged on it until Mrs. Woo knelt to look her in the face. The child smiled with crooked teeth and said, "We don' touch people who don' wanna be touched."

"No," Mrs. Woo said, resisting the urge to pat the little girl's fluffy hair. "We don't."

"Don' worry," the girl said, fingers in her mouth, giggling. "He'll be gone soon. Ghosties don't last long."

She was right, the young fortune-teller. Mr. Woo's moans and bangings had grown quieter over time. One day, not too long after she visited Fox Way, the noises stopped and never started again.

The perennials in the garden grew and grew, fed by the ashes of a bad man. Mrs. Woo's son grew up believing his father was a deadbeat, a flunkee, and a scoundrel. Raven boys came and went, Mrs. Woo sending out letters to prominent Vancouver families, telling them to send their boys to Henrietta, to Virginia, the home of eight American presidents and hundreds of influential people. It is only an hour from Washington, barely more to Fairfax. Here they can excel. Here there is hardly any trouble to be had.

Mrs. Woo doesn't think she'll be leaving Henrietta anytime soon.


	6. Coming Out On Top (Koh/Ryang)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryang gets top surgery.

Ryang just wants it to be over.

The full month of wearing a binder has worn on him. He's in pain, he's tired of Koh hovering, and he's especially tired of having to wear a fucking binder again when the whole point of getting top surgery was to not have to wear a _fucking binder_.

"You could wear bandages instead," the doctor had said during the post-op checkup. Ryang had wanted to punch him. _You could wear bandages instead_. Like that was any fucking better.

His cursing has really gone up in the last month.

He just really needs to be away from humanity until this is over.

He thought he'd be happy this close to being able to go shirtless. But he isn't.

He's scared.

Every night he locks himself in the bathroom and takes the bandages off in front of the mirror. The incisions, once so raw on his skin, have begun to fade. The stitches have dissolved into the skin during the first week. He looks good.

He _looks_ right. He _feels_ right. And yet, he's scared.

Of what? He doesn't exactly care what most people think of him.

He doesn't have an answer. So he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, stares at the best decision of his life, and wonders why he isn't happy.

 

* * *

 

When Ryang first came home, still sore from the surgery, Koh was so good about it. He fluffed Ryang's pillows and brought him new ice packs when the old ones went warm. Ryang hadn't been able to stand being touched for days. He'd been grouchy and honestly a bit of an asshole. And yet, Koh stayed.

They'd taken his bandages off together. The stitches were big and ugly but they'd fade.

"Do you like them?" Koh asked.

"I do," Ryang said.

They looked for as long as they dared. Then Ryang covered back up. That was before the doubt set in and the fear.

He hasn't let Koh see him naked since.

 

* * *

 

It's been three days since the doctor said he could take the binder off. The majority of the healing's done.

Ryang hasn't taken the binder off. 

What if he messes it up? What if he rips his skin back open? What if he starts bleeding in the middle of a grocery store, little trickles of blood coming through his shirt? It could happen.

He keeps the binder on.

 

* * *

 

"Ryang?" Koh asks, knocking on the bathroom door.

"Just a minute!" Ryang says, hurriedly putting his shirt back on. He hasn't worn a binder, not all day, and he had to check, to make sure nothing shifted.

 _Is this me?_ He'd thought for a brief second, staring into the mirror with nothing to hide him. _Is this going to stay?_ One wrong move, would it all be gone?

"What's up?" he asks Koh as he closes the bathroom door behind them.

Koh's face wrinkles. "You been in there a while."

Ryang shrugs. "I had to go."

Koh bites his lip. He's looking at Ryang's chest.

"Sure?" he asks.

"I'm fine, Jinho."

"If you say so." His eyes move from Ryang's face back to his chest. "Everything okay?"

Ryang resists the urge to grab his chest and check for himself. "Everything's fine."

"Then why won't you let me see?"

Ryang draws in a breath. "Soon," he promises Koh. "I'm not ready yet."

 

* * *

 

It's been exactly five weeks since the surgery. Two post-op checkups confirm that nothing's gone wrong.

He's done.

He waits until the middle of the night to wake Koh up. He's been thinking about it all day, how he's going to approach it and just realized if he doesn't do it now, the significance of the day will be lost.

He shakes Koh by the shoulder.

"Ggrngh."

"I'm going to take my shirt off now. You're going to have to open your eyes if you want to see."

That gets Koh's attention. Suddenly, he's wide awake and sitting up.

Nervousness creeps over Ryang. He quashes it. Now is not the time.

He pulls his T-shirt off, moonlight striping across his bare chest. He shivers from the sudden chill, nipples stiffening. His face is burning.

Koh takes a moment to take it all in.

"I like them," Koh decides, right hand reaching out to touch. "Very manly." He rolls Ryang's nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Ryang gasps.

"Do you?"

Koh nods vigorously. "Yeah, cuz I get to touch them now." He strokes Ryang's pec and leans forward to kiss it. Then, because it's Koh, he presses his face against Ryang's sternum and says, "I could stay here forever."

"You're so weird," Ryang sighs, running his fingers through Koh's fauxhawk. He feels shaky all over, most especially in his chest where Koh's touching him. Koh likes them. It's a weight off Ryang didn't know he was carrying.

"But it's a good weird," Koh interjects.

"Yeah," Ryang says. "It's a good weird."

Koh falls asleep just like that with his head on Ryang's sternum, Ryang still combing through his hair, and it is the best feeling in the world.


	7. ML (SickSteve, Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SickSteve finds something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely believe SickSteve is Matthew's roommate in TRK, so here's a bit about after Matthew leaves for DC.

SickSteve throws the bouncy ball against the wall. With a loud _thunk_ , it comes back to him. The next throw is harder but it doesn't leave a dent, either. It's going to take a lot more force to do that.

The bare mattress that once belonged to ML, aka Matthew Lynch, SickSteve's empty-headed ex-roommate who up and moved to DC before the new school year had even really begun, is uncomfortable under SickSteve's back. His own bed, across the room, has blankets and pillows, all the accoutrements of sleep. SickSteve would rather be here. He catches the ball and throws it back. Catches it. Throws it again.

He's waiting for someone to say something. The repetitive sound has to be aggravating someone. Soon, they'll get up and come bang on his door, demanding he stop.

SickSteve's waiting for the inevitable fight.

ML's mom died last week. SickSteve only found out this morning. They're saying she passed in her sleep. Is that a thing now? Coma patients passing quietly, no raging against the dying of the light?

Throw. Catch. Throw. Catch.

SickSteve doesn't believe that. He doesn't want to. It's too neat.

There's poison in the valley.

Dark things live here, evil things. Monsters in human skin who kill and kidnap and hurt. People go missing, their names forgotten and their stories, too. People disappear and bodies are found and, too often, the names don't match; they're not from here.

 _Why did you bring us here?_ Is what Mrs. Woo should have been asked long ago. This place is not for the likes of them.

Then again, Mrs. Woo's husband went missing, too.

Little towns hold big secrets.

SickSteve doesn't want to think about this anymore. He wants his brain to shut off, to stop turning over and over the things that have obvious answers no one wants to hear.

ML's father was killed in his own driveway in the next town over. His mother went to sleep three days later.

Throw. Catch. Throw. Catch.

How much does it cost to buy off the town coroner? 

 _Is_ there a town coroner?

Throw. Catch. Throw. Catch.

Throw.

Something heavy dislodges from behind ML's desk and falls to the floor. SickSteve frowns and sits up.

He gets off the bed and crouches on the floor.

It's a notebook.

At first, he thinks ML must have forgotten it. Then he spies a line a few centimeters from the top, a thick crease that means the notebook has been wedged back there for quite some time. The scratches around the crease tell him his notebook has been shoved back there and pulled out more than a few times.

SickSteve opens it.

 _If you're reading this_ , the first words of the Moleskine read,  _then you probably already know there's something's wrong with me._

SickSteve frowns. He recognizes the handwriting- it's ML's, that's plain to see- but the words are not anything like the boy's. ML- he wasn't  _stupid_ , per se. Maybe a little below average. He was not a thinker. Or a dreamer, though he often spent time staring blankly into space. There just wasn't anything there.

Or so SickSteve thought.

He flips through the pages.

 _I think my brother has a guardian angel._  Next to it is a clipping of a boy in Aglionby clothing.  _This is what he looks like. He's been dead for seven years._

Macabre. Inventive. ML was neither.

It only gets stranger the further he goes.

 _I miss Ronan._  There's a whole page of that, the words repeating over and over in ML's loopy hand.  _I miss Ronan, I miss Ronan, ImissRonanImissRONanImissRONAN_

Ronan is ML's middle brother. He stayed behind when ML left. No one bothered to tell SickSteve why.

SickSteve continues flipping through.

_He told me I didn't matter. Ronan could just replace me. Declan won't tell me he was wrong._

SickSteve searches the pages before and after but there's no mention of who "he" is.

The entry ends with _I don't know what I am. Please, someone, tell me what I am._

A few pages of scratched out writing later:  _I wish no one had told me. It was better when I didn't know._

_There used to be three of us. Now it's just me and Mom. We don't know how much longer she's going to last._

_She's not really my Mom. I don't have a Mom._

The last entry, partway through the notebook, is the strangest of all.

_Do you want to know what I am? I'll tell you._

And ML does. SickSteve reads it once, then twice, then a third time for good measure. It doesn't make sense. It isn't possible.

What on earth, SickSteve thinks as he flips back through the increasingly bizarre pages, has he stumbled upon?

 


	8. Sleepy Sunday (Cheng2/Rutherford)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sleepy college morning. Established Cheng2/Rutherford.

"Are you going to get that?" Rutherford asks. Cheng2's phone's been ringing for five minutes.

"Too early for phone calls," Cheng2 grumbles. He snuggles closer to Rutherford. His morning wood rubs against the small of Rutherford's back in a not unpleasant way.

"It could be important."

"Then you get it."

Rutherford turns back and reaches over Cheng2 to scrabble for Cheng2's phone on the nightstand. He puts in the passcode (0420, blaze it) just as the phone starts ringing again.

"Hello?" Rutherford asks groggily.

"Rutherford?" It's Cheng. Why is he awake at- Rutherford checks the time- 10:48 am? Wow, okay. Thank goodness it's Sunday. "Put Cheng2 on."

Cheng2 buries his face in Rutherford's shoulder and shakes his head. Rutherford stifles a laugh.

"He can't come to the phone right now."

"He can't what?!" Cheng's dramatics are a lot this early. "Is he hungover again? Hang on." Cheng yells something at his companion on the other side. "Tell him I need him to check my Stats homework. Yes, yes? Thank you!" Cheng hangs up.

It takes Rutherford a moment to process what he said.

"You're still doing Cheng's homework?" Rutherford asks, translating Cheng's euphemism easily. Cheng can't do math for anything.

"'m not doing his homework," Cheng2 says.

Rutherford looks at him. The skepticism could not be stronger.

"It's the easiest math his major will let him take." Cheng2 shifts. He tugs Rutherford's boxers back up over his hip and smooths a hand over his stomach. He mouths at Rutherford's neck gently. "I'm not going to let him _fail_."

"Mmm."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Not nothing." Cheng2 rubs his nose against Rutherford's neck. Mornings make Cheng2 overly affectionate. Rutherford's not complaining. "What?"

"He's not going to learn anything if you keep doing his work for him."

"Like you passed all your Gen Eds without help."

"I’m not the one taking Gen Eds as a senior!"

"Okay, okay." Cheng2 slides his hand up and down Rutherford's stomach soothingly. "I'll tell him to check his own stuff next time. Can we go back to sleep now?"

Rutherford turns his head back.

"Kiss first."

Cheng2's smile is a gift. A wonderful, beautiful, glorious gift that belongs to Rutherford alone, Cheng's mooching notwithstanding. Rutherford keeps his mouth closed to avoid morning breath.

"Kiss first," he agrees.


	9. Koh/SickSteve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Koh pushes himself too hard practicing and SickSteve keeps him company.

Sometimes, Koh pushes himself too hard. He's not the fastest on the soccer team or the best at defense, yet he thinks, if he stays later, runs more, practices until he's the only one on the field and it's dark out, he will be.

It's admirable, in a way.

It's damn foolish in another.

Too often, one of the Vancouver crowd has had to come pick him up because he's done too much. His legs are jelly, his hands won't fully uncurl, he's just a mess.

When it's really bad, he won't call anybody. He'll just stay on the field until one of the boys notices he's not home and goes out to find him.

Last night was one of those times. It took until nine pm for Cheng2 to figure out Koh never made it pack to the dorms after five o'clock practice. By then, it was long past curfew, which meant Koh had to go to Litchfield House, sheepish and with his head down, leaning on Mrs. Woo's pity for shelter. She let him in, with the stipulations that he keep his legs elevated, eat at least two bowls of plain juk, and not leave the couch by himself. Koh was less than happy with this, mostly because he _hated_ juk.

It was, admittedly, better than the lecture that followed.

 

* * *

 

Living in the dorms, SickSteve is always the last to know. But find out he does and he proceeds straight to Litchfield to give Koh a piece of his mind for being the most idioticdongsaeng on the planet. He walks in the door, mouth open, ready to berate, when he sees Koh.

Who is just the most pathetic-looking thing, lying on the couch with his legs elevated, the TV off, and only his government textbook to amuse him.

(The remotes, of course, have been placed on a shelf much too high for Koh to reach even if he were allowed to stand up and the TV is unplugged because sympathy and Mrs. Woo have yet to make their acquaintances.)

Instantly, SickSteve's anger dissipates. Koh's too cute to stay mad at.

Not too cute to laugh at, however, which SickSteve does. Profusely.

Koh pouts. "They won't let me get up."

The condensation on Koh's glass of iced tea makes it clear it's been there a while. The ice has melted to the point where it's more water than tea, alayer of semi-clear liquid on top of tan.

SickSteve hits Koh'stemple lightly. "That's what you get."

"I wasn't out there that long this time!"

"That's not what Mrs. Woo says." SickSteve grabs Koh's glass and goes to dump it out in the sink before pouring a new glass.

"She wasn't even up when I got back!"

She was. Mrs. Woo wakes up any time one of their cars comes or goes. She has ears like a bat.

"Steve," Koh whines. The name is nearly unrecognizable through his accent, which renders it Seutifeu. Koh'snever been able to get the name down, can't do anyWesternnames, to be honest. SickSteve doesn't mind.

There are a lot of things about Koh that he doesn't mind.

"Hmm?"

"I want togo upstairs."

"And?"

"Auntie says I have to have help."

SickSteve is 6'4". Koh is 5'6". There's no way in hell they're getting up those stairs with Koh leaning on SickSteve's shoulder.

SickSteve makes the logical decision: he scoops Koh up and proceeds up the stairs. Koh shrieks before collapsing into giggles.

"My legs aren't broken," he tells SickSteve.

"Would you rather walk?" SickStevemakes to set him down.

"No!" Koh wraps his arms around SickSteve for dear life.

SickSteve smirks. "Didn't think so."

"You're so meeean, Steve," Koh whines. It makes SickSteve laugh. Next Koh will be pulling out the aegyo.

"I'm just taking care of my dongsaeng," SickSteve says and if that isn't the biggest lie. His neck is burning.

Koh makes a rude noise but continues to cling to his friend.

SickSteve sets him down on the bed in the guest bedroom (one or both of them should really move into Litchfield with the amount of time they spend here) and Koh immediately grabs for one of the pillows, sinking his face into its coolness. It's unpleasantly hot outside, even for a Henrietta spring, not that Koh would know, having been lying on the couch all day.

SickSteve goes to the window and pretends to look out it. He's done what Koh's asked but he doesn't want to leave just yet. Koh's tea is downstairs. Perhaps he should go get it to have an excuse to come back up.

"Steve-hyung," Koh says. SickSteve turns back. They don't need to use these words- they're in America now- but it's comfortable. The Aglionby elite don't understand them nor the locals. Why should they adapt their own language for people who don't even speak it?

That's not all, though, not even close.

Korean boys are allowed to be closer than Canadian or American ones. Physically, they can show affection more. If SickSteve can't have what he really wants, he can have this.

"Lie with me," Koh says,face still half-buried in the pillow. This isn't the stupid boy who pushed himself to do suicides and drills well after dark. This is the Vancouver crowd's sweet maknae who thinks nothing of asking other males to lie down with him.

SickSteve raises one eyebrow and does as asked.

"I like you," Koh says when they're lying side-by-side, facing each other. He runs his handup and down SickSteve's arm. "You're nice."

SickSteve snorts. They both know that's bullshit.

"You are," Koh insists. "To me, at least."

"You're easy to be nice to." SickSteve reaches out and brushes Koh's hair back. Without the gel, it's floppy and prone to getting in his eyes.

Koh smiles and shifts closer. SickSteve's arm is tingling. His face is on fire.

"Don't tell anybody this, but you're my favorite hyung."

"Am I?"

Koh nods. He's so cute with his feathery eyebrows and brown eyes and that little, pointed chin. And those thighs. He's small but the muscles in those are _massive_. What SickSteve wouldn't do to get his hands on them.

SickSteve's expecting a response but Koh seems satisfied withremaining nonverbal. He moves closer, until there's barely any space between them. When his hand moves from SickSteve's arm to his shoulder and then his collarbone, SickSteve's brain starts to short-circuit. He sits up.

"I'm going to get your tea," heannounces in entirely too high a voice. He doesn't wait for Koh's reply before he's off the bed and tramping down the stairs.

"Bring some cookies, too!" Koh calls.

"I'm not your servant!"

"Yes, you are!"

SickSteve grabs a package of Oreos and Koh's tea. He hurries back up the stairs. 

He doesn't want to miss a single second.


	10. Movie Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From tumblr: Suggestion for a vancrewver one shot: movie night!

It's not often all seven members of the Vancouver crowd are collectively free on a Friday night. But tonight everything's worked out. Soccer's over for the season, the band teacher's running a fever, parties are being missed. It's worth it. Sometimes you just gotta be with your people, ya know?

They're gathered in the living room around the projector. Mrs. Woo's floral couches are made more for looks than comfort, but bring a few blankets and they're alright. Still, most everyone chooses to sit on the floor.

"I'll make the popcorn," Koh says, to which three different voices answer, "No!"

Koh pouts. He's not allowed to work the microwave, not since the time he and Rutherford tried to recreate the Pure Evil video with Cheng's old cellphone and orchestral effects.

Rutherford is also not supposed to work the microwave but Rutherford is a sneaky fellow and does all his microwaving when no one is around to tell him otherwise.

"What do we want to watch?" SickSteve's scrolling through Netflix already.

"Ip Man," Koh says.

SickSteve groans.

"Ip Man," Koh repeats. He's settled against Ryang's side, popcorn bowl clutched firmly between both hands. There's no popcorn in the bowl. Koh's merely holding it so when the popcorn does come he can dole it out like a lord gifting bread to his grateful subjects. It is a very fun game, all things considered.

"Ip Man," Cheng2 agrees before SickSteve can try to persuade them all to watch something else. SickSteve's suggestions don't necessarily suck but it's Friday night. Nobody wants to hear why SickSteve thinks  _L'avventura_  or Werckmeister Harmonies is a cinematic masterpiece, especially if SickSteve whips out one of his voice-overs (no, just no). Except Ryang. Maybe. They argue about what constitutes a "masterpiece" a lot. Ip Man is safe. Donnie Yen is cool.

"Losers," SickSteve says, pressing play.

Koh sticks his tongue out at him. Ryang and SickSteve argue over him a lot, too.

The movie starts.

Koh watches the credits eagerly. No one else is even close to as invested in the movie as him. Most of the Vancouver crowd prefer more intellectual films but Koh is a man of action, both in taste and personality. He gets visibly, physically excited for action movies, whether it be Transformers or Musa. Ip Man is no different.

Koh can't read the Chinese script that fills the projector screen but he knows the English subtitles by heart. As the sound of firecrackers fill the room, he gifts Cheng2 a stunning smile.

Cheng2 sends one back.

He's just waiting for Yuan to show up. Donnie Yen chewing open-mouthed while You-nam Wong whinily demands he defend his honor is the second best scene out of the whole movie. Look, Koh's riveted.

(Koh's waiting for Ip Man to grab scumbag Li's revolver and send the chamber flying.)

There is the  _slight_ possibility Cheng2 had the world's biggest crush on You-nam Wong when this movie first came out, a crush that has not lost its intensity in the intervening years.

Oh, and there goes Yuan, running away right before things turn to shit.

Cheng2 doesn't like the middle parts, after the invasion. None of them do. Even Koh's eyebrows knit together in unhappiness. It's painful, seeing someone brought low like that when it's your family's story, too.

He likes to think, Cheng2, if he ever had to go through something like that, he'd be like Lin, good-spirited and hard at work, out to make the best of what he's given. He'd be the type to die spitting blood in his enemy's face.

(Kavinsky's face.)

(Cheng2 dreams of it. Giving him back what he dished out, making those heavy-lidded eyes widen in fear, that pale skin turn red and purple and black.)

"Fuck the Japanese," he says to break himself out of that headspace.

SickSteve snorts. " _Such_ a controversial opinion you've got there."

Koh giggles. He doesn't even look up at SickSteve when he does it. His eyes are still fixed on the screen where Ip Man is wordlessly taking down ten Japanese martial artists at once. Sometime during the movie he migrated to SickSteve's lap. Ryang's sitting next to them, smoothing down Koh's flyaway hair.

Cheng2 begs a handful of popcorn off of Lee-Squared and Cheng, who've taken up the bowl in Koh's stead and spent the better part of an hour seeing how much popcorn they can throw at SickSteve's back before he notices. As Cheng2 attempts to shove more salty corn into his mouth than wants to fit, he hears Ryang ask Rutherford in an undertone, "Is it all fighting?"

"Yes," Rutherford replies morosely. He has his chin pressed against his fist.

Cheng2 gives them both the double bird. People need to learn to bask in the magnificence of Donnie Yen.

Which he isn't doing a great job of doing, admittedly. Donnie Yen's cool and all but, uh,  _Yuan_. You could probably break Ip Man into four parts: pre-Yuan, Yuan's beginning, the years without Yuan, the return of Yuan. Cheng2 could write a whole synopsis on the four parts, rating them from best to worst.

Woah, Cheng2 hasn't seen this movie in a while. Yuan is downright _beautiful_  when he comes back with Jin. Holy fuck, he's hot. Cheng2 tugs at his collar.

And here it comes. Ip Man sends Jin flying, then he turns 'round lightning-fast and pins Yuan against a pillar. Cheng2 has played this scene over in his head a hundred times, Donnie Yen, You-nam Wong, the pillar, the almost lip bite. Koh's watching this movie for the action. Cheng2's watching it for the  _sex_.

"Oh, thank God," Ryang mutters as the credits begin to roll. "It's over."

"Let's watch the second one," Koh says at the same time, much louder.

"There's a second one?" The dismay in Ryang's voice fills Cheng2 with epicaricactic delight. There've been talks of making a third.

"I don't mind," Lee-Squared says.

Ryang shoots him a dirty look.

"Ip Man 2 it is," SickSteve says. "Koh, would you do the honors?"

"I got it," Cheng2 says, grabbing the remote. Ip Man is a legend but Ip Man 2? Aw, man. Ip Man 2's got Huang Xiaoming and Huang Xiaoming is hands down one of the hottest men alive.

After Cheng, natch. But you didn't hear Cheng2 say that.


	11. Kimchi bokkeumpap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing quite like Lee-Squared's mother's kimchi.

There's a bowl waiting for him when he wakes up.

Lee-Squared digs into his kimchi with all the gusto of the recently awoken. He's too groggy to ask where Koh found a microwave to heat the rice up. Probably Remington's room. He and his roommate have an illegal hot plate. Stands to reason they'd have a microwave, too.

Lee-Squared savors the kimchi. His mother's is always so much better than Mrs. Woo's, which Lee-Squared suspects is store-bought. The lack of myeolchijeot is telling.

There's nothing quite like his mother's kimchi.

It's only after Lee-Squared has finished that he remembers his mother is three thousand miles away and hasn't sent him any care packages recently.

Lee-Squared groans internally. He thought he'd been getting better at controlling it.  


His and Koh's room is already overflowing with uselessness (while the singing dictionaries are pretty bad, the worst offenders are the DVDs of obscure movies that devolve into screaming static five minutes into play. SickSteve is a, ah, constant figure in Lee-Squared's nighttime pursuits). Lee-Squared doesn't need to be adding to the pile.

Blame Adam Parrish. A year ago, the volume and frequency was much lower. But one hick plays around with things he shouldn't and suddenly they all have to listen to "excoriate, exculpate, extricate" sung in an ear-splitting coloratura soprano.

From his bed on the other side of the room, Koh throws a balled-up sock. It hits Lee-Squared in the shoulder.

"What?" Lee-Squared asks.

"You never make any for me," Koh grumbles. "So rude, Lee-Squaredie."

"Sorry," Lee-Squared says. There isn't a trace of sincerity in his voice. "I'll make sure to include you in my dreams next time."


	12. A Vancouver Crowd Halloween

“Stop eating all the candy, Koh,” Ryang chastises. He grabs the bowl and holds it out of Koh’s reach. “It’s for _trick-or-treaters_.”

Koh makes a protesting sound. The effect is somewhat diminished by a mouth full of chocolate. They all know Litchfield House doesn’t get nearly as many trick or treaters as it has candy. Mrs. Woo is very strict about the one piece per child rule and they have enough candy to feel all the children in Henrietta.

Earlier, Koh tried the argument that, technically, he was also a child in Henrietta and therefore liable to have a piece. It fell apart on his fifth fun-size Snickers bar.

Making a face at Ryang, Koh wanders over to the kitchen table where Rutherford and Cheng2 are playing doctor. Rutherford’s even got a lab coat and a mask. It’s not even dark yet. Rutherford just likes to party in _style_.

“Blade, Cheng2.” Cheng2 obliges, handing Rutherford a serrated kitchen knife.

The table’s covered in newspaper, a bevy of cutting instruments arranged on one side. On the other is Ryang’s drawing to Cheng2’s specifications. This surgery was planned out to the minutest detail.

Rutherford sizes up his patient. He begins his incision.

He cuts deft, sharp strokes, cutting a circle into the persimmon-colored crown. Once the edges align, his and Cheng2’s eyes meet. Rutherford levers the knife and with a crack, the contents are revealed. He hands Cheng2 the skullcap. Cheng2 places it carefully on the table.

“What’s the diagnosis, doc?”

“It's…” Rutherford pauses dramatically. He wipes his brow.

“A pumpkin,” Koh supplies. Cheng2 swats at him.

SickSteve snorts and pushed the bowl of gummy worms closer to Lee-Squared's reach. Nobody’s said anything about Lee-Squared eating all the candy. Racism. There is no other explanation. Certainly not that Lee-Squared is much sneakier than Koh and less apt to shove three candy bars in his mouth at the same time.

“A flesh-eating amoeba,” Rutherford declares.

Koh peers inside the pumpkin. It looks perfectly normal to him. Just pumpkin guts and seeds. Rutherford must be an excellent doctor to tell the difference.

“Is it treatable, doc?” Cheng2’s face is very earnest. Koh applauds his staying in character.

“Not at this stage.” Rutherford shakes his head. “The poor sod. He’s already dead. Well,” here his voice brightens, “we might as well remove his brain.”

What happens next involves two spoons and sprays of orange-white goop. It gets on the floor. It gets on the ceiling. It gets in Cheng2’s hair.

Ryang wrinkles his nose. “Gross.”

Cheng2 flicks pumpkin guts at him.

Ryang shrieks.

The grandfather clock in the living room bing-bongs its way to four o’clock. Normally, Koh ignores it but today-

“Monster movie!” he announces. He grabs Cheng as he’s trying to sneak out the side door. Cheng is very bad at being sneaky. It’s the hair. Very hard to be sneaky with great hair drawing all the attention. Koh has the same problem. “Nope. Monster movie is for everyone. Halloween is all night.”

Cheng's cries of “no, please, I hate monster movies” go unheeded. They’re lies anyway. Everyone likes monster movies. Especially terrible, cheesy, American ones. Koh is going to make them watch Leprechaun: Back 2 tha Hood. Who could resist?

Koh presses on Cheng’s shoulders until he sits on the carpet in the TV room.

He sets the TV up while keeping a stern eye on Cheng. There’s no party starting yet. Cheng can wait until six to go meet Gansey and their secret girlfriend.

“It’s starting!” Koh yells, though, of course, everyone who’s going to watch is already here. Rutherford and Cheng2 are finishing up their pumpkin since they’re losers who couldn’t get theirs done last week like everyone else. They can listen to the cinematic masterpiece from the kitchen.

Koh looks around for a place to sit. Cheng’s on the floor where Koh put him. Ryang’s got the armchair. SickSteve and Lee-Squared are sitting on the couch with a chaste one foot of space between them. Aha.

Koh steals a handful of orange and brown M&M's from the bag on Lee-Squared’s lap. He ducks his head to avoid SickSteve's hand and uses that distraction to plop down next to Lee-Squared.

“Hi, L2,” he says.

“Hello, Koh,” Lee-Squared says back.

Crossing his legs so that his knees are solidly in _everyone’s_ personal spaces, Koh sticks his tongue out at SickSteve. If looks were daggers, Koh would be murdered right now. Good thing they’re not.

Lee-Squared just smiles and continues chewing his M&M’s.

Twenty minutes into the movie, Rutherford and Cheng2 join them. They sit at the foot of the sofa, which is really not that smart of them because Koh is very agile and not at all against leaning down during the scary parts and digging his fingers into Cheng2’s ribs.

Lee-Squared grabs him when he’s about to. Koh pouts. Lee-Squared shakes his head.

“Let’s have a nice night, okay?”

Because it’s Lee-Squared and Lee-Squared is the nicest person Koh knows, he says yes. He sits back, only the slightest of pouts on his face and watches Warwick Davis stalk about in a leprechaun costume. He even leans into Lee-Squared’s side a bit and puts his head on his shoulder, not to make SickSteve mad or anything but because Lee-Squared is _really_ soft and _really_ nice and this is nice, all of them together, even Cheng.

In a couple hours, Koh will be going to one of the public school parties. He might see one of the guys there. He might not. He’ll probably get drunk and call Ryang to drive him home or maybe SickSteve, whoever’s up and semi-responsible. But right now, right here, he gets to have Halloween with his friends and that is very cool, no matter what Cheng thinks.

As the movie’s winding down, there’s a knock on the door. Cheng2 jumps up, yelling, “Trick-or-treaters!” and Halloween really begins.


End file.
